


Where the Heather Grows Best

by Garonne



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Illya-centric, gen with hints of het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:38:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6302944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is on a mission on the Isle of Skye when he makes friends with an art student on a painting holiday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Heather Grows Best

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lindafishes8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindafishes8/gifts).



> This was written for lindafishes8 at the mfu_scrapbook comm on livejournal.

.. .. ..

Illya was perched on top of a boulder, his legs drawn up in front of him and his folded arms resting on his jeans-clad knees. The sea breeze ruffled his hair and whispered through the heather around him. The cliff edge was a few yards in front of him, and he could hear the waves of the Atlantic crashing onto the rocks below.

Rhona had set up her easel in a sheltered spot off to his left, facing away from him so that she had a view across the sound to the Isle of Raasay and the mainland. Her canvas was a mass of sparkling blue and fresh green, set against the purple and brown of the Scottish Highlands in the distance. 

She stopped painting for a moment to clean her brush, and then glanced back over her shoulder at Illya. She threw him a bright grin. Illya smiled back.

She was a lovely girl, and he felt the usual twinge of guilt at using an innocent for cover like this. 

They'd met on the deck of the ferry to Skye, when the wind whipped Rhona's sketchpad out of her hand, and only Illya's quick reactions saved it from a watery grave. Then they'd retreated to shelter on the leeward side of a tension winch, and Illya offered her a drink from the huge thermos flask he was carrying in his rucksack. Along with the hiking boots and bobble hat, it was part of his disguise as a Danish exchange student at Cambridge, on a walking holiday in the Highlands and Islands.

She'd told him she was a student too, at the Glasgow School of Art. They'd spent the rest of the crossing deep in conversation, with Rhona doing most of the talking. She'd chattered guilelessly about her artist friends, her flatmate's cat, and her parents who were both veterinary surgeons in a village near Aberdeen.

It turned out she'd planned an itinerary across the island quite similar to Illya's own, and Illya was happy to stick with her while they walked off the ferry together, and waited for the bus to Portree. There was nothing more suspicious than a man travelling alone, but few people looked twice at a young couple in hiking boots and rainmacks, enthusiastic holiday expressions on their faces.

Now, Illya turned to look out across the island to the north-west, where he could see rainclouds gathering. He wondered how Napoleon was getting on in the helicopter. Illya's partner had spent the last four days searching the Western Isles for signs of the THRUSH base they were almost certain had been built somewhere in the area. Meanwhile, Illya had his own task to carry out, and he hoped to get a start on it tonight, with Rhona's unwitting help.

It was getting close to dinner time, and Rhona started to gather together her equipment in preparation for the walk back down the hillside. Her travelling easel folded up small, and Illya could carry it under one arm, but she insisted on carrying the painting case herself.

"I'm used to lugging it around," she said with a smile. "And if you drop it you'll break my pastels."

They walked back to the little harbour town together, Rhona chattering away about the small art exhibition she hoped to contribute to on her return to Glasgow after the holidays.

This afternoon they'd set off walking towards the south, but Illya's goal lay in the hills to the north of town. He'd been thinking about how he might bring up the idea of a stroll in that direction, but in the end he didn't need to. Rhona suggested it herself.

"How about exploring on the other side of town this evening?" she said before they parted for dinner. "I saw a path that seems to lead that way from the far end of the harbour."

Illya readily agreed, and they arranged to meet on the harbourfront in two hours' time. Rhona waved goodbye and set off into town. Illya found a secluded spot behind a pile of lobster crates and opened a channel to Napoleon.

He couldn't hear the overpowering noise of the helicopter in the background, thank goodness. Napoleon and the crew must have landed somewhere.

"We're on South Uist," Napoleon said in answer to his question. "Eating tinned beans and survival bars in the tent. If you're dining out tonight, don't tell me."

"I did spot a cozy-looking restaurant on the harbourfront earlier today. I was thinking I might drop in and try their smoked salmon or the local mussels..."

Napoleon groaned.

"Or the Aberdeen Angus steak," Illya went on relentlessly.

"Stop it, Kuryakin. That's an order."

Illya grinned to himself.

"I'll be sure to give you a full report afterwards, Napoleon."

Napoleon, clearly deciding he couldn't win this one, changed the subject.

"Waverly says you've found yourself a charming assistant spy."

"I have been travelling around with an art student for cover, yes. She's on holidays on the island."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"What's she like? Is she pretty? Does she flirt?"

"She thinks I'm a Danish student called Emil Knudsen."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Illya didn't answer. Even over the communicator, he could hear Napoleon's enormous sigh.

"Illya, the poor girl is probably just hoping for a few days' pleasant flirtation. I doubt she's thinking of lifelong commitment. What does it matter if she thinks you're a Dane called Emil?"

Sometimes Illya was extremely jealous of Napoleon's ability to have a good time without thoughts of the future, and to find an endless supply of beautiful, self-assured women with the same mindset.

"Any sign of the base yet?" he asked, deliberately changing the subject in turn.

Napoleon let it go.

"Not yet," he said, voice now businesslike. "We've already been over two-thirds of the area we plan to cover. This evening we're going to fly south."

"I'm going to head up into the hills this evening. With any luck, Wintner has already arrived at Grahame's hideout."

"Be careful, Illya."

"I will if you will."

Napoleon chuckled.

"The only danger I'm in is being driven crazy by the pilot's bad jokes."

They signed off, and Illya tucked away his communicator. He walked down to the restaurant he'd mentioned and ate a quick dinner -- though not the Aberdeen Angus steak. Then he checked in with Waverly, and finally arrived back on the harbourfront in plenty of time to meet Rhona.

She was carrying a small sketchpad under her arm. It was almost seven o'clock, but at this latitude they still had three or four hours of daylight left. They walked briskly up into the hills, along a pathway that soon became a narrow dirt track, surrounded by gorse bushes and bracken.

After walking for half an hour or so without meeting another soul, they came to a wider dirt road, churned up by the tracks of motor vehicles. They followed it, and soon came to a brand new metal sign in the roadside, saying 'Trespassers will be prosecuted.' In the distance, they could see the track led to a gate set in a high stone wall, mostly hidden by high, thickly growing gorse bushes. Behind the wall, Illya knew, must be the house where Grahame and his men were hiding out.

Rhona frowned at the sign and clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

"There is no law against trespassing in Scotland," she said crossly. "Come on, we can walk wherever we like."

She slipped her arm through Illya's, and they strolled on up the track.

Now that they were closer, Illya could see barbed wire running along the top of the wall. There was a man out on the bogland just outside the gate, changing the tyre of a muddy old trailer. Illya watched him out of the corner of his eye. Rhona, who was hanging onto Illya's arm in a very flirtatious way and chattering away to him, didn't seem to notice the man or the barbed wire at all.

The man looked them over once, a long, suspicious stare. Then he turned away, hopefully dismissing them as a courting couple looking for a secluded spot. Illya was once again grateful for the coincidence that had brought Rhona into his company on the ferry.

They didn't go right up to the gate, but took another faintly marked track that led off around the side of the wall. Soon, they disappeared from the man's sight through the thickly growing gorse bushes.

Illya was busy thinking, mapping out the various possibilities in his head. How many other guards were there around the house? Was Wintner already there or not? Their intelligence hadn't been very explicit about when he was expected to arrive. Illya would have to come back some time after midnight, without Rhona, and try to get over the wall and have a look round inside. He'd already spotted a few places he might be able to climb over without too much difficulty.

Soon they emerged out into an open grassy space, sloping down to the cliffs a few yards ahead of them.

"What a glorious view!" Rhona exclaimed. She was already reaching for her pencil. "I think I'll sit down here and sketch for a bit. I could do with a rest."

Illya hesitated, and Rhona flapped a hand at him, gesturing him away.

"You go on ahead, if you like. You said you wanted a brisk walk, and I'm just holding you back." She gave him a rueful smile. "I'll wait here for you."

Illya smiled back.

"All right. See you in a bit."

Five minutes later he was back at the wall, well out of sight of the man at the gate, and keeping an eye out for other guards. He swarmed quickly up a tree he'd spotted earlier, whose branches grew close to the wall. A spot of gymnastics, and he was on the other side, though not without the barbed wire leaving its traces on his clothes and skin. He dropped to the ground behind a convenient bush, and then raised his head for another, more leisurely look around.

The house was a few dozen yards away, a solid grey-stone building two storeys high. Between it and Illya was a collection of outhouses. No one was in sight.

Illya had only intended to make a quick reconnaissance and then come back after dark. But now he was in, and security seemed lax. He decided to push his luck and try to get a look inside the house. If Wintner was already here, he could get the job done right here and now. All he needed was one photograph.

The sun was low in the sky now, and the outhouses were a collection of dark, shadowed blocks. Keeping in their cover, Illya darted across the grass and right up to the house. Most of the windows were in darkness, but on this side of the house the lights were on in two rooms upstairs and one downstairs. He crept up to the nearest window and peeked in.

Four men sat around a table in the room, deep in discussion. An open bottle of Talisker stood on the table, and one man was taking a sip from a glass he'd just poured. Illya recognized him instantly from the many photos and film reels he'd studied during the mission briefing. It was Wintner, without a doubt, and the man to his right was Grahame.

Illya ducked away from the window, and retreated to the shadow of the nearest outbuilding. In his pockets he had all the parts necessary to assemble a small but high resolution camera. Before he could start, however, a quiet cough from nearby caused him to spin round, his gun already in his hand.

Rhona had stepped out of the deep shadows in the doorway of the nearby barn. Too late, Illya tried to hide the gun -- not that Rhona seemed particularly perturbed by it.

"I hope you have a license for that," she said calmly.

"I, ah -- " 

Illya stared at her, nonplussed. Now that he'd got over his initial surprise, he had time to wonder what on earth was she even doing here.

"Are you the man from UNCLE, by any chance?" she added. "They told me UNCLE was sending someone in."

Illya's eyes narrowed.

"Who are you?"

"Special Branch, Strathclyde Police. I don't have my badge with me, for obvious reasons." She eyed his UNCLE special. "Lower the gun, please, will you?"

Suddenly she sounded a lot less like an over-enthusiastic art student, and a lot more like someone who had several years behind her dealing with armed robbery and street violence.

Illya lowered the gun, but didn't put it away. He still wasn't quite ready to trust her.

"And you're here after Grahame too?" she asked.

"Not precisely, no." He paused. "It's his little sideline in smuggling that has caught the attention of Special Branch, I presume?"

"That's right. We've been tracking him down for months, but I'm still not even sure if he's here now -- "

"He's here."

Rhona's eyes widened and she glanced quickly towards the house.

"You're sure?"

"I saw him clearly."

She was already looking around her, planning her way out.

"Then I need to get back into town to use the telephone. But I need to see him first -- I can't call in a whole Special Branch squad on the word of a man who may or may not be from UNCLE. No offense intended."

"None taken." Illya holstered his gun and pulled out his communicator. "I've got something here you can use to make a call without going into town. But first, I need a photograph."

"A photograph?"

"Grahame has a visitor, a man named Wintner. A photo of the two of them together will be the proof we need to persuade a certain influential person he's been betrayed."

"All right," she said readily. She drew a handgun from her coat pocket. "Be quick about it, and I'll cover you."

Illya swiftly assembled the camera. Then he crept back up to the window and peeked inside. The four men were still sitting round the table. Wintner had produced a folder of documents from somewhere and was showing them to the others. Illya had a clear view of Wintner's face and of Grahame in profile. He took a few quick snaps that he thought should come out pretty well, even without the flash. Now if only Grahame would turn his head just a little so that he was even more recognisable --

That was when Wintner raised his head and looked right into Illya's eyes.

Illya swore, shoved the camera in his pocket, and started to run.

"Get out of here," he shouted at Rhona, and saw her break out from the cover of the outbuildings and join his headlong dash across the garden.

He'd just boosted Rhona up over the wall when the first bullet hit the grass by his feet. He scrambled up after her, got thoroughly scratched by barbed wire despite the thick jacket he'd thrown over it, and then dropped down the other side.

"I had a scout around," Rhona gasped out as they raced through the bushes. "Before I came over the wall. There's a path down to the beach -- and a boat -- "

They hurried past the spot where Illya had left Rhona to sketch and on out to the cliff-edge. They half ran, half scrambled down the narrow path to the beach, where there was indeed a motor-boat, tied up in a tiny natural harbour.

Illya started the motor, and soon they were zooming out away from the cliffs, bullets splashing into the water around them. Rhona returned fire at the men on the clifftop, and Illya concentrated on getting the motor up to speed as soon as possible.

It was a full nerve-wracking minute before they were out of gunshot range and could breathe again.

Rhona flopped down onto the seat beside Illya.

"I wonder how long it will take them to get a boat and come after us." She twisted around to look anxiously behind her. "Head straight down the sound, will you, and make for the mainland? I've got a bunch of colleagues waiting in Kyle of Lochalsh. Can you patch through to police radio on that gadget of yours?"

But the engine was already making an ominous spluttering noise. Illya glanced at the petrol tank gauge, and saw without surprise that it was close to empty.

"I have a feeling we won't be going quite that far," he said grimly.

They managed to reach one of the uninhabited islands in the Inner Sound, though they had to swim the last few hundred metres. Their only consolation was that they'd managed to get out of sight of the cliffs before they'd made landfall.

"We should get inland and try to hide," Rhona said, dripping and shivering on the beach. "They'll be after us soon, and there aren't that many places we could have gone."

Illya pulled out his communicator with a flourish. He was still feeling embarrassed at having so stupidly been caught at the window, and his ego relished the chance to show off a little.

"My partner's in the area with a helicopter," he said, and enjoyed Rhona's wide-eyed look of amazement. "We can be out of here in half an hour."

"There was a bigger beach a bit further to the north," Rhona said. "A huge flat expanse of sand, and the tide's going out."

Napoleon, to his credit, didn't tease Illya about needing a rescue. That would come later, Illya knew, but for the moment they were still in danger.

"We'll light fires to mark out the beach if necessary," Illya added, because the sun was finally setting. "But try to get here before that, please, Napoleon, because I have a feeling THRUSH will be drawn to the flames too."

"My matches aren't quite that waterproof," Rhona said as soon as Illya had broken the communication. "Or do you have a firelighting gadget up your sleeve."

"Not up my sleeve, in my belt," Illya said smugly.

They built two stacks of dry wood, and then sat on the grass at the edge of the beach, facing west, and watched the sky above them turn pink and orange as the light faded.

"I hope Grahame comes out clearly in your pictures," Rhona said. "Because my boss is going to kill me when he hears I didn't even get a look at him."

"UNCLE cameras are the best technology has to offer," Illya reassured her.

Rhona regarded him for a few moments as though weighing him, or UNCLE, up.

"You know, I had a feeling right from the start that you weren't all you seemed," she said finally. "But your story checked out -- there really is an Emil Knudsen studying physics at Cambridge this year. Whoever sets up your cover stories is very good at it indeed."

Illya hoped his embarrassment didn't show in his face, but that was clearly in vain, because Rhona soon let out a snort of startled laughter.

"You didn't even check me out, did you?"

"You were very convincing," Illya said defensively. He seemed to have made a series of mistakes on this mission, and he had a feeling that all his cool gadgets weren't quite enough to make up for that, when it came to impressing pretty Scottish police officers. Rhona was looking highly amused and not at all impressed.

"I wish I had my painting box," she said after a moment's silence.

This didn't seem like quite the time for painting to Illya, but he said nothing.

She caught his expression, and laughed.

"It contains all my equipment: spare bullets, a handheld radio, and most importantly right now, a few packets of nuts and raisins. Why do you think I didn't want you carrying it?

Illya thought back to this afternoon, and Rhona painting on the clifftop. It seemed more than just half a day ago.

"You're good, you know," he said abruptly. "Your paintings, I mean. You really could have been an art student."

To his surprised, Rhona went slightly pink.

"Thanks. Though maybe... I think that life might have been a wee bit too boring for me."

Illya grinned at her, feeling of sudden sense of kinship. He wished he'd known all along who she really was. Perhaps then he'd have been able to get to know her a little better. Now, however, they'd soon be swept up in the whirl of paperwork and wrapping up the mission, surrounded by her colleagues and his.

They sat and watched the sunset over the Isle of Skye, streaks of pink and orange blending into each other. Beyond that were the Outer Hebrides, wild and desolate -- and beyond that nothing until America.

Rhona seemed to be thinking the same thing, because she asked, "Are you based in New York?"

"Most of the time, yes."

"Bit more exotic than Glasgow, I think."

"Oh, I don't know. I quite like Glasgow too."

That was when they heard the noise of the helicopter high overhead.

"We're over the Isle of Raasay," Napoleon told them a minute later via communicator. "Get those fires burning, Illya."

"That's your real name?" Rhona asked after he'd broken the connection. "Illya?"

"Yes."

"I'm Ellie Duncan," she said, holding out her hand. He shook it, and then she surprised him by pulling him closer and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"If you're ever in Glasgow, come and look me up," she said, and then stepped away. "Come on, we'd better light those fires."


End file.
